


Carry You Home

by Walsingham



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 21:23:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Walsingham/pseuds/Walsingham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the fall, and John has gotten into the habit of visiting Sherlock's headstone every single day.<br/>Until he recieves life-changing news.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carry You Home

**Author's Note:**

> Named for James Blunt's song 'Carry You Home'.

   Everyday, Dr John Watson visited the grave of his late best friend, Sherlock Holmes. Whether he had to jump the fence after hours or stand in the harshest of weather, he would get there. He'd stand in front of the headstone, and talk about anything and everything that came to mind, then, eventually, he'd trudge home to 221B Baker St. He used not to be able to bear crossing the threshold, knowing Sherlock wouldn't be there, plucking the strings of his violin, but now he didn't want anyone else to live there. The blog didn't get updated; nothing happened to him anymore, and even if it did, he would make his way to the graveyard, and spill his heart out.

   Never did he even _think_ about missing a visit. It had become a habit, one that if he broke, would break him.

   But today, he couldn't face it. When he had returned from the war, he thought he had seen and felt the worst there was. When he had watched Sherlock fall, he had experienced those pains and emotions all over again, and he knew what to do to keep them at bay, though barely. They're all still there, simmering in his heart, ever-present, threatening to boil over with every passing moment. But there was a new feeling, one he was uncertain of, and didn't know how to control. He couldn't even name it.

   John sat slumped in a chair beside the fireplace, his mind making up pathetic excuses as to why he felt he couldn't share today's news with Sherlock. Because he didn't want to burden anyone else? _What does it matter? He's dead!_ John thought involuntarily. He winced at the voice inside his head. It had been almost a month since the fall, but John knew that even years couldn't fix him.

   He needed to busy his hands, so he stood up and walked into the messy kitchen, aided by his aluminium crutch. His limp was back, worse than ever since the fall, but John greeted it as an old friend. His only one. Mrs Hudson no longer came around, unable to stand the sight of John by himself. Lestrade and Donovan (if you could have called her a friend in the first place) hadn't seen him since the funeral, but still sent the odd email, just to say hello. John never replied.

   The smash of a teacup cleared John's mind a little, just enough to engage with tea-making.

_Black, two sugars._

   As the teapot fell from his grip, John crumpled onto the ground, shards of china cutting his bare feet and hands. The tears came thick and fast, and soon, his jumper was soaked through.

   Then he was on his feet, abandoning the mess and running down the steps and out the front door. Pieces of china and gravel tore his bare feet, but he barely felt them. All he could think about was getting to the grave, about telling Sherlock what happened, about begging for a miracle.

   The gate of the graveyard was in his sights, his breathing ragged and heavy.

   And it stopped completely. John fell to his knees, clutching his chest. Every attempt at a breath, his lungs felt like they were on fire. There were people crowding him, calling an ambulance. They tried to get him to lie down, but the pain in his chest was too great. He heard the sirens, but blacked out before it had stopped beside him.

***

   John opened his eyes to a world painfully bright, so he shut them again with  groan. A hospital, judging by the strong smell of disinfectant, and the rhythmic beeping of the machines behind him.

   After a few minutes, a doctor came in to check on him. John's eyes flickered open as he heard the footsteps approaching. All he noticed was the look on the doctors face. Serious. Sad.

   He sat on the edge of John's bed, and looked him in the eye.

   "I'm sorry."

   As John half-listened to what the doctor was telling him, the rest of his mind was in the graveyard, repeating what the doctor was saying to Sherlock's name. He was doing this almost subconsciously.

   "I'm sorry," the doctor repeated, before getting up.

   "So, I can't leave here? At all?" John asked, just as the doctor reached the door.

   "I'm afraid not, it would only be painful, but if you wish to call anyone, let me know," and with that, he walked out of the door. John just sat there for a moment, before making his mind up.

   "Bullshit," he muttered to himself, and pulled the sheets back. Thankfully, they hadn't changed him into a hospital gown, and he was still in the clothes he had arrived in. He gingerly placed his feet on the ground. When he didn't feel pain from all the cuts on the bottom of his feet, he stood up. Taking a deep breath, he tore out all the drips and things that attached him to the machines. There was a second before the beep of a flatline filled the room, but John just ran to the door and pushed past nurses and doctors. Somehow, he had gotten through the front doors of the hospital before anyone could stop him. Gradually, the pain returned as the painkillers wore off, but by then he was past where he had collapsed before, and past caring.

   He crashed through the gates of the graveyard, and didn't pause until his hand was resting on the black gravestone.

   "Sherlock," he wheezed, "I'm sorry. I almost didn't come today, but I had to see you." Taking a precious, painful breath, he sat down, his back to the headstone so he could see the world in front of him.

   "I'm dying, Sherlock. Cancer. The big 'C'. I only got the news this morning, and was coming here, but I collapsed and was taken to the hospital. It was worse than they first thought. I barely have a few hours."

   John spilled his heart out, his voice growing weaker, his lungs burning with every breath. Eventually, the pain was too much. He put his hand behind him to pat the black marble.

   "I'll see you in a minute, yeah? Home's not home without you," he said, his voice hardly more than a whisper. John curled up, leaning against Sherlock's headstone, pressing both hands against the cool stone.

   Tears filled his eyes. Tears of sadness and pain. He bit his lip to try and keep the pain at bay.

   As his last breath slipped between his lips, John slumped down, released of pain, and life.

   A tall, thin man slowly walked over and knelt beside John's body. He brushed the older man's hair away, and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, before scooping John's body up in his arms and carrying him through the streets, through the door and up the stairs of 221B.

   "You're home, John. I carried you home."

\------------------------------------------------------------

_As strong as you were, tender you go._

_I'm watching you breathing for the last time._

_A song for your heart, but when it is quiet,_

_I know what it means and I'll carry you home._

_I'll carry you home._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> Kudos + concrit always welcome!  
> xxx


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